


falling (inches from the snow)

by bonebo



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: whatever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 16:10:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7764409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in the early days of Delphi, he was naive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	falling (inches from the snow)

In the early days of Delphi, he was naïve.

Overflowing with confidence and eager to leave Ratchet's shadow far behind, he came to Messatine with ambition and a vision—he looked out at the endless snow and saw a blank canvas, the first page of his next chapter, untouched and ready for whatever glorious mark he would place upon it. He found his facility was small, but he swore to make it mighty; his supplies were scarce, but he knew he would use them in ways new and amazing to bring miracles to life. He would do _good_ here, better than any who had come before; he knew it, _believed it_ , and vowed to the endless open sky that he would show everyone just what kind of power he held contained in his gifted hands.

He took his first echoing steps inside the doors of Delphi and promised himself that he would make all who had doubted him believe, and that when he was done here even Ratchet himself would have to come, to see, to _witness_ the greatness he had achieved in this waste of ore and snow. He would have it all: the public’s adoration and Prowl’s quiet respect and finally— _finally_ —the gap between them, student and mentor, officer and assistant, _Pharma and Ratchet_ , would close.

Pharma found his office and holed up inside, stood close to the broad window as he dialed Ratchet's comm-link extension. The warm puffs of air from his vents fogged up the glass as he talked at length about the beauty of Delphi, the excitement of his own facility, his plans and ideas; Ratchet listened and offered his own congratulations, and Pharma thrilled at the warm pride in his voice, his fingertips carving meaningful glyphs in the condensation on the window.

_____

The messages start a week later.

Pharma helps bring in their first patient, a wounded miner—Ambulon is the chief paramedic, he knows, and if Ambulon’s fleeting, almost-annoyed looks cut his way are any indication, _he_ knows that as well, but Pharma just can’t help himself. He’s eager to hit the floor and prove himself, save the life of the first patient to enter his Delphi.

“Don’t worry,” he tells the miner—Slipshift, he thinks he remembers, and the clicking, aborted rattles of the miner’s T-cog trying to activate confirm his theory—as he notices the terrified shaking of the mech’s frame, the overbright shine of fear to his optics. It’s disconcerting, in a way, how scared he seems; the only injury Pharma can see is a gash down Slipshift’s side that gushes energon, and while it must be painful it shouldn’t prove fatal. “Ambulon, hand me my welder and solder, and get Slipshift here started on a blocker drip.”

Pharma perks his wings up as he looks to Slipshift's faceplates again, meeting the mech’s gaze with a look he hopes is calm but confident. “My name is Pharma,” he starts, leaning over Slipshift’s abdomen and prodding at the wound gently with one fingertip. “I’m the CMO here at Delphi, and you’re going to be just fine—”

Slipshift explodes.

The noise is deafening and the gore is everywhere, energon splattered across the walls and over Pharma's frame, coating him in his first failure. Frozen with hands still raised, he can only stare down at the table where the shattered husk of Slipshift's body remains, smoking and bleeding and so thoroughly ruined.

_He failedRatchet_ think?

“Pharma.” Ambulon's voice is hushed and disbelieving, his hand shaky as he taps one gore-spattered wing. “Pharma...there's....there's something inside...”

Pharma follows Ambulon's trembling gesture, stares at the cooling corpse on the table—and lying among the hoses and gears is a piece of thin metal, welded down to what remains of Slipshift's t-cog, laser-carved with a message.

_Cliffs. Dusk._

__

Like a fool, he goes.

Ambulon and First Aid both told him to stay, all but begged him to call the authorities—and Pharma silenced them both with a glare and a promise that if word of this incident left Delphi he'd pull both their licenses. They retreated, cowed, and Pharma thought no more of it as he headed toward the cliffs.

He's early.

He paces at the base of the mighty hunks of frozen soil and stone, and curses the snow—it coats his fine moving parts and gets into every seam in his frame, irritating and cold, chills him to his core. He's busy trying to work the frost out of the lines of his flight panels when he's covered by a shadow, and looks up to see a wall of purple and black.

The mask has him on edge, already regretting his actions—but then the mech _speaks._

“Hello, _Pharma_ ,” the mech purrs, and Pharma chokes as his spark stutters, seized in an invisible vice grip in the safety of its housing. “My name is Tarn, and I'm here to tell you how things work on this lovely planet _Messatine_.”

The timbre of the mech's voice drops, and Pharma drops with it, sinking down to his knees in the snow. His hands go immediately to clutch at his chest, frozen fingers sliding uselessly over his plating, desperate to relieve a pressure that doesn't exist.

“Firstly, this planet belongs to the Decepticon Justice Division—it has since this war began, and it will until Megatron decrees our victory. You just had the unlucky fortune of being placed here.” Tarn folds his hands behind his back and starts to pace around Pharma, gazing over him appreciatively, like one would a fine bottle of engex—judging age, strength, quality. “However, you are blessed in the fact that I am a reasonable mech, and would prefer to keep peace on our happy little home. You will also keep that peace, or you will be _removed_.

“The terms of our peace are this—you will provide me with a quota of T-cogs from your facility each month. So long as they are functional and in good working order, I do not care where they come from. If I'm _satisfied_ with this quota, your Delphi will remain standing and unharmed by the Decepticons.” He glances down at Pharma, then, optics bright, overbearing; Pharma's vents stutter out a gasp as his spark is compressed even further, squeezed from all sides and twisted. Tarn continues above him, voice soft and thoughtful. “If I'm _not_ satisfied, however...I will _raid your facility_.”

Pharma chokes on a breath, dots starting to dance in front of his vision, the very life being squeezed from his frame; his hands come out to catch himself as he falls, inches from the snow.

“I will slaughter everyone I see.”

Tarn crouches and grabs Pharma's face in his hand, squeezing his cheeks painfully; wild blue optics meet blazing red, and Pharma swears he's dying, he can't _see_ —

“And you, _Pharma_ , I will tear piece from piece, and ship your head back to Ratchet in a gift-wrapped box.” He pauses for a moment—Pharma chokes and sputters in front of him, rendered helpless and unable to breathe, unable to think—

“These are my _terms_ , Pharma—do you agree to them?”

Pharma is nodding before he knows it, lips forming words that he doesn't have the air to voice, terrified and desperate; and then Tarn's grip is gone, and his spark is free once again, whirling in his chest like a storm, and Pharma sucks in a heavy breath and collapses into the snow.

“I'm glad we can agree,” Tarn says, voice fading as he walks away; Pharma offlines his optics and focuses on ventilating, on calming his racing spark. He can still feel a phantom of Tarn's fingers on his face. “I'll be seeing you soon, _Doctor_.”

__

Pharma—his fear, his desperation—keeps his deal a secret.

The first year is the hardest—the first time he stares down at the dead body of another patient he's lost, and tells himself that what he's doing is what he has to do, for the good of the facility, the good of _everybody,_ he knows his words are hollow. His first trip out, he's sure that the weight of the T-cogs in his subspace will keep him from flying.

He's disappointed to find that it doesn't.

Tarn waits for him every time, unflinching in the driving snow, and as the seasons change Pharma finds himself changing with them. Heavy fists and a tight grip make Tarn less a business partner and more a bullying fiend, and as his quota jumps higher and higher Pharma finds himself desperate. He spends longer hours in the clinic, working through the night as he searches for those whose lives he can quietly snuff out, and every step he takes he hears Tarn echo, always looming, ever present.

He lives in fear for years, haunted by what he’s done and what he must continue to do, and by the time he realizes he's in too deep, he's already guaranteed himself no way out.

Pharma's breaking point comes when he gets a comm message from a number he hasn’t thought of in months, halfway through his last harvest of the month.

_I’m coming to visit soon._

For a moment Pharma is frozen, rereading the message, checking the sender—he can’t believe it. After all this time, how long he’s struggled in silence, worked to keep everything under control, and _this_ is who will come to his door, to make a ruin of everything he’s worked for?

_Ratchet,_ he thinks fleetingly, desperately, the laser scalpel shaking in his cursed hands as he stares down at the cooling corpse laid out before him—he catches a glimpse of himself in those blank, dark optics, the face twisted in horror, and his core goes cold. His conscious has a moment of clarity, and surges up to cry _Ratchet—call Ratchet—Ratchet will know what to do—_

But no, he can't call Ratchet—Ratchet can't know. He can't know because he's _Ratchet_ , and Pharma can handle many things—Tarn's mocking laughter, purple paint transfers marring his thighs, First Aid's doubtful silences—but he _cannot_ handle Ratchet's disappointment among them, Ratchet's disgust, the end of whatever anemic barely-there relationship they now have.

Pharma throws the scalpel down and takes a step back, hands coming up to run over his face, uncaring of the energon it smears across his plating; his breaths come quick and shallow, optics darting around the prison that once was his facility as he tries to think through the panic that clogs his vents.

His gaze settles on the window, stares out at the blizzard whipping through Messatine in a blinding fury; for a moment he’s transfixed by the driving flakes, how they knock about helpless against their own destiny, caught in a storm they never asked for, never saw coming...

In a sudden rush of clarity, Pharma knows what he must do.


End file.
